


Broken Wings

by Jersey



Series: Gone Native [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Vingt mille lieues sous les mers | Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea - Jules Verne
Genre: Accident, F/M, Starvation, Torture, Tragedy, crash, immobilized
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 16:52:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1695557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jersey/pseuds/Jersey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a boring, seeming routine crossing of the Atlantic, Tony Stark is shot down and crashes into the ocean. Lost and trapped in the Ironman armor, Tony waits for a rescue to never come, counting down the days until he starves to death and accompanied only by Jarvis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Wings

**BROKEN WINGS**

_“So….. what are you wearing, Pepp?”_

Pepper Potts stifles a chuckle at the question, trying not to blush as she strides from entry to the California offices of Stark Industries towards her waiting car with Happy Hogan at her side. “I am going to decline to answer that.”

_“On what grounds?”_ Tony presses from the other end of the line, insinuating playfully over the cell connection from the Ironman suit.

It has been nearly six months since the Extremis incident. Months of Tony floundering for something to do. She had watched as he struggled to find something to invest himself in, something to catch his spark, and fail miserably each time. He had languished miserably about the house. A few weeks ago, Pepper herself had snapped before Tony could, ordering him to return to his superhero work for both of their own good. While Tony has not returned yet to active duty of sorts, he has become active in the political arena as Ironman, and it has been good for him.

Pepper sighs and shakes her head in a mix of childish embarrassment and exasperation. “Oh, I don’t know. The fact that we would be having this conversation in public, with an employee present and any number of prying ears who would just love to sell something like that to the tabloids. Pick one.”

The “employee” comment draws Happy’s attention, but, quite fortunately, the bodyguard/driver says nothing and turns his attention to taking her things to set in the backseat of the SUV. Pepper is eternally grateful for the small mercy, but she knows it has been earned by dubious training and experience. Working for Tony Stark as many years as Happy has, the man has come to bear a surprising number of secrets with the sort of discretion that would probably make even master spies like Nick Fury, Natasha Romanov, or Clint Barton all absolutely green with envy.

_“Seriously. What are you wearing?”_ He asks again, as she climbs into the vehicle and shuts the door.

This time, in the quiet confines of the SUV, Pepper snaps before Happy can circle the car, “I am _not_ having an obscene phone call with you period. Especially not when you’re in that _thing_ and miles above Madagascar or who knows where?”

Tony laughs heartily and argues, _“Actually, I’m not anywhere near Madagascar.”_

_“Current GPS logs place the Ironman armor 72 miles west of Flores,”_ Jarvis helpfully clarifies.

As Happy clambers into the SUV, Pepper inquires, “And, where is that exactly?”

_“Flores is an island component of the Azores.”_

_“He’s trying to tell you I’m somewhere over the middle of the North Atlantic Gyre.”_ Tony must be in rare form – likely the appearance at the G8 went well judging by his candor. _“Where no one will hear any dirty little details and hours from home. C’mon. I need something to keep me going here. Jarvis is pleasant enough company, but he’s no you.”_

She knows he is just doing this to play with her out of boredom. She does not blame him. As acting CEO of Stark Industries, Pepper has had to endure her fair share of trans-Atlantic flights. The monotony of the vast, open ocean can be a daunting thing.

“I can’t believe you’re actually suggesting this.” Pepper pauses and frowns. “Can you even do…..” - she glances at Happy as he pulls out of the parking lot, staring intensely at the road as though to pointedly avoid eye contact and involvement in the conversation- “Do _that_ in the suit?”

_“I never tried. Maybe we should give it a test-drive.”_

Pepper giggles, honestly giggles, before composing herself. “How about tomorrow, dinner?”

_“What are you cooking?”_ That draws another hoot from Pepper, but Tony continues. _“It’s not like you want me anywhere near a kitchen.”_ She continues to laugh, unable to rein herself in at the thought of Tony Stark attempting to cook anything resembling an edible creation, and, so Tony offers, _“Take out, then? That Thai place you like?”_

She gathers herself enough to nod and reply. “Sounds delightful.”

_“Perfect. You can wear that-“_

Before Tony can continue with that thought, Jarvis calm, composed British voice cuts him off. _“Incoming. Recommend evasive man-“_

The line suddenly goes dead with a chilling crackle, and Pepper blanches. “Tony. Tony?” She waits for a response for but a second before growling, “Tony, this isn’t funny.”

All at once a sudden, unsavory and uncomfortable sensation settles over her; it isn’t funny at all.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

The search for Anthony Edward Stark – Ironman – is a massive, unwieldy undertaking by several countries – many of which had been personally assisted by the costumed hero. SHIELD heads the search, organizing from the ever watchful eye of the helicarrier, poised over the Azores. Ships and satellites alike scour the area, without a sign of the man. It is as though he simply fell off the face of the Earth.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Each morning greets Pepper with an overwhelming surge of updates in her bed – _their_ bed – before she has even risen or tidied her hair, thanks to Jarvis. She listens solemnly, chewing on her lower lip as Jarvis recites the updates from the many agencies involved in the search. Every agency is hasty to add their own remarks and theories, but all are easily summarized with two words. “No trace.” The woman gives each report her complete attention, thankful that only Jarvis knows how she grips the linens with white knuckles and cries at the utter lack of information when the morning summary draws to a close.

For the first year of her employment as Tony Stark’s personal assistant, she had been unnerved by Jarvis. The underlining program propagates an excellent facsimile of human intelligence and emotion, and that likeness had disturbed Pepper vaguely. The disembodied voice had startled her when Jarvis spoke, enough to prompt Tony to craft a simulation of it in the form of an older, British butler in stark black uniform. That had further unsettled Pepper, and she eventually asked Tony to stop the 3d projection, especially after numerous frights through the house. She had grit her teeth and forced herself to simply adjust to the artificial intelligence that ran the house and perhaps all of Stark’s strange world. Within two years, Pepper had become so accustomed to Jarvis’s constant, reassuring presence, that she often found herself calling to him in her own apartment - only to naturally receive no answer.

Pepper thanks Jarvis every morning after composing herself, and she means every word of it, even if the artificial intelligence cannot necessarily comprehend that. Jarvis is a comforting constant in her world, now, one which does not judge her daily breakdowns or her nagging worry. Jarvis does not offer the same, meaningless drivel a human might. He does not lie to her and promise that all will be well, that Tony will be found shortly. Jarvis merely presents the facts as they are, and nothing more.

After the morning report, Pepper takes a long, hot shower, applies her make-up, tidies herself, and prepares for another agonizing day. She needs to present herself accordingly for a CEO, in particular of a corporation as mighty as Stark Industries. Certain standards must be kept in Tony’s absence, that his company and legacy remain standing upon his return.

A grim breakfast is followed by a daily statement to the press with Happy at her side. She reiterates the information presented to her in the morning updates. She entertains a few questions from the reporters with terse responses before Happy steps in to rescue her and escort her out.

Work. Lunch. Work more. Listen to more reports. Dodge insipid words of comfort from employees, civilians, heroes, dignitaries, politicians, and more. Dinner. Listen to the status updates again. Work more. Pepper crams every waking hour with activities to distract her until late in the evening.

Then, when the woman returns to her bed, she clutches the sheets tightly, dragging them close to her, and drifts off, breathing in his smell.

Days slip by and blur into weeks. Weeks go by without change. Tony’s smell slowly leaches from the bed linens. Pepper is eventually forced to pull the sheets from the bed and launder them. His presence melts from her world with each passing date without any clue to his whereabouts or to whatever happened during those last, strange moments.

In time, the agencies slowly begin to cease in their efforts. One at a time, the many agencies send their condolences to Stark Industries. Pepper answers each of them cordially, as befits a businesswoman of her caliber, but refuses to entertain the thought of Tony’s potential demise.

It is not until _they_ come to see her. Rhodes. Happy. Agent Barton. Agent Romanov. Directory Fury. Captain Rogers. Dr. Banner. They visit her in a group, as though in the delusional thought that Pepper requires an intervention. Fury is the one to break the news to her. Two months have passed; granted the capabilities of the particular suit Tony had been in, there is apparently no hope of finding him alive. SHIELD can ill afford the resources spent searching for a dead man when the world needs defending on a daily – hourly – basis.

The others offer their condolences, but nothing of the matter seems real until Pepper spies Dr. Banner sitting quietly in the corner, unable to lift his gaze. In the brief moments that he does, the woman spies the red rims and shimmering, gloss there. Dr. Banner had grown close to Tony in the time following what Wikipedia has dubbed the “Battle of New York.” Under Tony’s wing and the protection of Stark Industries, Dr. Banner had blossomed into the confident man he had been before the accident, living in Stark Tower and churning out research with zeal. Now, without his friend, he seems shaken and lost, somehow smaller and less sure of himself. It is his all too evident pain that nearly shatters what little hope has survived in Pepper.

Later, when everyone else has left, Dr. Banner remains, lingering like a lost puppy; Pepper smiles warmly and asks, “Will you leave?”

“Are you kicking me out?” he blurts out, his face ashen at the thought.

Pepper’s heart skips a beat at her own blunder. “No. No, of course not.” She blinks, horrified that Dr. Banner could think such a thing after such making such great strides. “I just…..” Pepper pauses to collect her thoughts and formulate a coherent statement. “I didn’t know if you would want to stay on without Tony.”

“Where else would I go?” the physicist sighs heavily, suddenly seeming so smalls.

Pepper melts. “Then, stay.”

To her surprise, he rises and hugs her, embracing her tightly. She feels him tremble against her. For a terrible, dark moment, the woman wonders if he is about to change into that other creature lurking behind his eyes, but, then, Pepper realizes that he is crying. Pepper has never been in the presence of a crying man – even though the woman is certain she has drawn tears from her male colleagues after some rather ugly business meetings.

“It’s okay, Dr. Banner,” she offers, awkwardly rubbing his back.

He snorts and shakes his head against her chest. “It’s Bruce. Please. Just Bruce.”

Pepper smiles and pats him gently. “Okay, Bruce-Please-Just-Bruce.”

The paltry joke draws a small, pathetic laugh from the man, but that is enough to break the sorrow ever so slightly.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

There are two services to mark the passing of Anthony Edward Stark – Ironman as the world has come to know him.

The first is a grand public affair that certainly would have garnered Tony’s stamp of approval. It is most aptly and politely described as “over the top.” There are performances from various pop stars and rock bands. Scientists, scholars and politicians all speak a few words each over the empty casket adorned by one of Tony’s better photograph. Tony few friends – Pepper, Bruce, Rhodes, and Happy – populate the first row amid other business partners, but everything beyond that is a veritable bevy of who’s-who cramming into the entire space of St. Patrick’s in New York. Millions more watch from their televisions or in the grand gathering spaces concocted from stadiums and theaters across the globe.

The second is a much more intimate affair attended only by the very closest of Tony’s friends attend, along with the Avengers. It is not held in any public space. Instead, this smaller, quiet gathering meets at Tony’s Malibu house, now Pepper’s according to his generous will. Nick Fury presides over the service, commenting on Tony’s service to the world. Captain Rogers mechanically intones words of sympathy to her that Pepper suspects are well rehearsed from a bygone era of other little boys gone to war never to return. Agents Romanov and Barton give Pepper simply clipped responses, nothing that she did not already expect from the spies.

Then, just like that, it is over and done. The world keeps turning without Tony Stark. Lives continue on. The Avengers go public. Life proceeds without Tony Stark for everyone.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

“Sir?”

Jarvis’s precise, fussy voice cuts through the darkness and fog, but not enough to drag him fully from the warm, shushing embrace of unconsciousness. He is tired, so very tired, and the void is all too comfortable. His head and body aches impossibly as he tries to pull himself together; dull pangs begin to slowly resonate from his extremities inward. Is he hung over? He cannot put together what it is, but something about slumber seems all too kind to Tony right now.

“Sir?” Jarvis presses again, sounding concerned.

It is an illusion, Tony knows, somewhere deep down. Jarvis is not capable of _actual_ concern. He is, however, extremely capable of sounding worried. Jarvis is capable of registering a myriad of factors, calculating an approximate emotional factor, and responding with the appropriate tone, diction, and pacing sourced from countless samples of dialogue and interactions with Tony through the years. Smoke and mirrors. Tony knows this because Jarvis’s emotional matrix is perhaps his most brilliant work – an absolute symphony of programming concealed from public sight.

“Sir?”

Tony finally summons the concern enough to respond, but he manages only a faint, slurred sound, unrecognizable as human speech.

Jarvis pauses, as though allowing him a moment to compose himself before asking once more, softer now. “Sir?”

Tony frowns and blinks, surprised and confused. The darkness about him is not from the last vestiges of slumber, nor is it the comforting shades of his bedroom in the dark lull after a drinking session. Instead, it is the quiet, dim light of the Ironman helm, illuminated strangely by the HUD. However, unlike the normal data presented, there are massive gaps in the information, such as the GPS, time, date, and more. It is frightening enough to stir Tony from whatever sleep has held him.

“Jarv….” Tony finally manages to slur, attempting desperately to ground himself. “Wha happened? Where are we?”

“I am uncertain. I am unable to connect to any GPS satellites to establish a location,” Jarvis explains briefly and succinctly. “We have experienced a mid-air collision with a missile-like projectile and crashed.” The artificial intelligence pauses – again, a matter of programmed adaptive reasoning to know to leave humans time to process – before continuing. “Sir, I must ask you to focus and answer several diagnostic questions.”

Tony ignores the A.I.’s pressing words and demands in a low moan, “Call Rhodes.” His muscles stiffen, the pain suddenly flaring brighter as the situation grows clearer. “Give him the last good coordinates.”

“Sir, I cannot.”

Tony blinks once more, confused now. “What?”

Jarvis explains succinctly, “Sir, I cannot seem to connect to any communications network.”

Something about that sends shivers down Tony’s spine. The world is a wired place. Wireless networks blossom and bloom over every city, even in the smallest of small towns thanks to the many cable networks offering free hotspots. Cellular towers dot nearly every inch of the world. What little bit of the world is not covered by those are constantly watched over by the silent, creeping gaze of satellites in geostationary orbit. All these modes and more can Jarvis access for comms. There should be absolutely no reason for Jarvis to be cut off from the world.

Tony struggles to rise, but the suit refuses to budge an inch. He shakes from the effort as every muscle shrieks in agony against the motion. However, no matter how much Tony much wiggle, writhe, and fight against the stiffness of the suit, the suit does not move. He is trapped somehow, pinned in the darkness in a way he cannot fathom to so completely disable the suit. Only his digits are capable of moving, just wriggling in their armor encasing. The thought causes him to momentarily panic, then instantly regret the action as his body protests bitterly against it.

“Jarvis, pop the hood, would ya?” he orders.

“I cannot comply with that request.”

Tony starts; Jarvis does not lightly disobey a direct order. “Jarv?”

“I am currently registering lethal levels of radiation.” Jarvis stops once more, allowing the shocking information to register before insisting, “Really, Sir, I must ask you some questions.”

“What about the HUD?” Tony grits through his teeth as he tries once more to move anything more than a finger or toe.

“The radiation is affecting my ability to accurately render.”

Tony crushes his eyes shut. It is a disastrous and near crippling thought. He is pinned and in the blind, unable to see what has him trapped so. As such, there are limited options. He tries the repulsors, only to find nothing.

Jarvis pipes up with a chiding tone. “There appears to be an external power sink. The suit is unable to achieve voltage exceeding that of base emergency life support.”

Tony’s heart skips a beat and, then, throbs terribly in response, as though catching up. No power. No visuals. No movement. No comms. Nothing. He is truly and absolutely lost, completely at the mercy of whatever limited information was available before the suit crashed and the capabilities of search and rescue. It is somehow worse than Afghanistan, and his head swims at the thought, unconsciously calculating the vast probabilities against him.

Jarvis’s voice breaks through the mental tumult, but Tony hardly hears the words. “Huh?”

“I have limited diagnostic capabilities. Your heart rate and respiration are elevated, and you have spent several hours unconscious. I am concerned but unable to render any complete assessment.”

Tony nods as much as the confines of the helm will allow – which is not much. He knows Jarvis must do this. The A.I. is not only imbued with a sense of preservation for its creator, but also for its self. Again, his programming. Jarvis’s programming demands that he assess Tony’s physical condition and instruct for any medical treatment.

“Fine….”

Jarvis asks him a series of questions that Tony that he later hardly recalls. He answers them, glibly at best. In the end, when satisfied, the program diagnoses its creator with a concussion and limited bodily strain from the rather impromptu landing.

Tony sits in silence for a moment before whispering almost fearfully, “What now?”

“Now, Sir? Now we wait.”

Tony snorts. “You know the odds of anyone finding better than I do.”

“Granted,” Jarvis concedes before saying anything more.

“How long?”

Jarvis seems confused by the question. “I beg your pardon?”

Tony furrows his brow in the dark. “How long do I have to….” He does not wish to say the words, dark and forbidden, any of the words; as such, Tony opts for vagueness. “Wait?”

“Search and rescue will require time to pinpoint the coordinates of the suit based off of the last known contact point, presumed trajectory after mid-air collision, and known ocean circulation at assumed crash site.” Jarvis stops. “Sir, there is something else you should know.”

“What good news do you have for me, now?”

“The calculations will prove wildly inaccurate. They operate upon the false assumption that the suit would either sink or freely drift upon ocean currents passively. We are doing neither,” Jarvis elaborates succinctly. “The suit was collected intact by an unidentified party shortly after impact.”

Tony shudders and feels himself quake slightly. “They’re never going to find us, are they?”

“’Where these is life, there is hope,’ Sir.”

Tony shakes his head the minute distance the helm allows as hot tears prickle uncomfortable at the corners of his eyes. “Jarvis. Be honest. Run the numbers.”

“Considering the last date the filter was changed and the average production of sweat and urine produced by a male of your size, condition, and situation, reclaimed and recycled fluids will continue to remain viable for a period of no less than sixty seven days before metabolic biproduct concentrations exceed safe limits. Based off of your size and the data available from your last meal, it is likely hypoglycemia symptoms will begin to set in within the next 72 hours, followed by prolonged atrophy, bodily wasting, edema, and further symptoms. Starvation related fatality is likely within 18 days.” Tony winces at the window, but Jarvis keeps on going like the god-damned Energizer bunny. “Pressure sores will develop within the next ten to twelve days, potentially with secondary infection, skewing this estimate. Prolonged immobility in this position increases your probabilities for deep vein thrombosis as well as pneumatic illness – either of which will also decrease this estimate.”

Tony draws a deep breath and holds it, almost afraid to let it out. “Less that eighteen days.”

Jarvis does not say anything immediately. “It would seem so, Sir.”

It’s a countdown, then.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

DAY 1

Although Tony does not say it, he does hope almost naively that someone will rescue him before the close of the first day. He holds that ridiculous hope close to his heart. It is the only thing that keeps him from absolutely falling apart on that first day.

Outside of the suit, something moves around, tapping and hammering at the hard, metal exoskeleton. Tony holds his breath as the faint reverberations tickle at his chest. The blood roars in his ears while his heart hammers away. However, in time, the sounds fade away, and Tony is alone once more with only Jarvis and his thoughts.

He spends much of the time simply looking at the clock in the corner of the HUD. He tries not to look. He tries to distract himself by going over the events of the crash again and again, searching for some sign, some clue of whoever holds him captive so. He has Jarvis replay the scenario again and again on the HUD. Every time Tony thinks hours have passed this way, he opens his eyes and looks to those neon colors, finding nothing more than five or ten minutes have passed. It is maddening.

He asks Jarvis to display all the known terrorist organizations that might have orchestrated an attack of this nature. Jarvis cannot access Interpol and SHIELD records as he normally can, but, even with that limited data, a laundry list is displayed. Tony considers and discards each entry in turn for one reason or another.

He looks to the time; 29 minutes have passed, no more.

Tony never did have anything resembling an attention span.

 

The first day is fraught with minor discomforts, nothing so severe as to frighten or concern Tony immediately. He aches slightly at his buttocks, heels, elbows, shoulders, and anywhere his body lies in direct contact with the suit beneath him. The Ironman suit is not designed for long-term occupancy, let alone reclining so. Unable to roll over or otherwise move off those pressure points, the man presses upward as best he can to relieve those spot temporarily.

In the afternoon, his stomach begins to growl and twist. His lunch had been a meager one, just a quick bite before his appearance. He had actually been intending to have a nice, lovely dinner in with Pepper before curling up together to watch a movie. Tony had never anticipated anything like this. He pushed the thoughts of his own hunger down and dictated a series of notes to Jarvis on a supplemental feeding system should this ever occur again.

Tony drinks often, sipping the freshwater to trick his stomach. He knows it is of little consequence, but the water does ease his hunger. It is enough to confuse the senses, make him feel as though he has eaten.

Some hours later, when Tony’s boredom has reached a fever pitch, the inventory realizes he must relieve himself. He has only ever pissed himself once in the suit – and, to his defense, he had been incredibly intoxicated at the time. Tony has never otherwise wet himself since he was four. His father had seen it that no son of his wet the bed. It is a painful reminder of how intractable his situation is, but Tony holds it. The suit can take care of it for him, but Tony still hopes distantly that someone will find him before it comes to that.

He starts to leaf through Jarvis’s data on the North Atlantic, trying not to pay attention to the feeling.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

DAY 2

The second day begins with a start in the wee hours of the morning, when most sane people asleep. Tony is woken by the sharp, punctuated need to urinate. It startles him from a deep, dreamless sleep that he had not even noticed falling into. In the darkness, there is hardly any difference between sleeping and waking. He pushes the thought away and tries to sleep more; the longer Tony sleeps, the less time he has to fill with his thoughts to ignore the feeling.

However, sleep evades him. So unable to move, Tony cannot get comfortable enough to sleep, lest of all with his bladder actively protesting and his stomach growling once more. He dare not drink more water, for fear of forcing the matter, and, without such a distraction, his stomach howls and twists with need. Tony chews on the inside of his cheek, hopeful that the sensation will pass.

He and Jarvis muddle through some calculations, attempting to discern the cause of the power drain as best as possible. There may be a loose wire, or exposed terminal to some device that is causing the suit to short out and draw power. Tony cannot be sure, but the activity helps to take his mind off of the many discomforts of his body. It is of little effect. Tony can neither find the cause in the blind as this, nor can he distract his body for much long from its own, pressing urgencies.

Tony fights against his body for as long as he can until it is of no avail. To his abject horror, Tony pisses himself like a child in the suit. He shudders and blinks in embarrassment, but, then, takes solace in the fact that no one will bear witness to this indignity unlike the last time. Before Tony can muse on the matter further, the suit soaks up the liquid and dries him efficiently, reclaiming as much of Tony’s piss for drinking later. An outside observer might be disgusted at the thought, but Tony knows that the recycling system is the only thing that will keep him alive and conscious beyond the next day.

The matter tended to, Tony sips enough water to make his stomach feel full once more, mindful that this remains a temporary solution at best. Then, he allows himself to sleep again for a bit. It is still early in the morning, according to the HUD. Tony can afford himself some sleep.

Some indeterminate time later, Tony is woken once more. This time, it is from the uncomfortable prickling of pins and needles in his arms and legs. Desperately, Tony squirms in the suit, trying to move to relieve himself of the sensation. Only his fingers and toes are capable of any significant movement and relief as a result. The rest of his skin crawls with the awful feeling.

Frustrated and exhausted by the affair, Tony slumps in the suit and tries not to think about the prickling. The inventor turns his gaze upward, to the clock illuminated in the HUD. 11:27 AM

He forces himself to work, then. “Jarvis, hit me with some ACDC and the schematics for the sensor array for this suit.”

“Of course, Sir.”

Immediately, the helmet fills with life and sound. Music pours in through the speakers – _Thunderstruck_ , an excellent vintage in Tony’s all too humble opinion – while the glowing helmet schematic appears. Jarvis immediately explodes the schematic, without requiring any additional prompting from the inventor. Tony explores every inch of the sensory system to the suit, pouring over every minute detail in hopes of either bypassing the effects of whatever radiation source is about them and scrambling the array so.

Afterwards, Tony looks once more to the clock. 12:31 PM

He sighs heavily. If he could, Tony would rub his forehead and eyes. He is unaccustomed to such nothingness, such emptiness and void in his life. He is a man of action, of movement and constant stimuli. Tony could almost die of boredom.

He chuckles at the thought, and Jarvis inquires softly, “Is something wrong, Sir?”

Tony flushes and immediately tries to shake his head – almost forgetting for a moment his dreadful situation. His A.I. even thinks he is going to lose his mind to ask so delicately.

“No, Jarvis. I’m fine.” He smiles oddly at the phrasing. “As fine as I can be. Just…. Bored.”

“Might I recommend a movie, then, Sir?”

Tony blinks. “A movie?”

“Sir, may I remind you that my data banks include both archival footage from prior engagements as well as film files from the Stark secure server,” Jarvis explains.

For a moment, Tony almost considers watching the archival footage, but, then, curiously, asks, “What movies? I never put any movies on the server.”

“No,” Jarvis admits. “But Miss Potts did.”

“Pepper?!?” Tony nearly squeaks in surprise. “Never did think she was one for pirating movies.”

“Of course not, Sir. They are legal, digital downloads.”

Tony smirks; the little goody-two-shoes. “Why?”

“Miss Potts had planned a series of dinner and film evenings for you before the events of Christmas. She had included the films on the Stark server so that they should be available regardless of your location.”

The inventor feels something uncomfortable tugging at his heart. “Why am I _just_ hearing about this now?”

‘’Miss Potts continued to postpone such plans due to conflicts between your schedules.”

Tony’s heart twists oddly, and he crushes his eyes shut. He never knew. Of course not. She always does little things for him; why should this surprise him? She is always thinking of him. It is humbling.

He shakes his head at himself and breathes, “Remind me to ask why she’s putting large files where they’re going to sync with you later and pull up the list.”

“Certainly, Sir. I have added the reminder to your calendar.” Jarvis always has to have the last laugh, it seems.

A list appears in the HUD. It is not a terribly long list, but it is unusual. Tony had been expecting the selection to include mostly “chick-flicks.” Instead, it seems Pepper has been picking movies more with his dramatically short attention span in mind. _Pacific Rim. Godzilla_ (the new one, he notices, not the Broderick monstrosity; he wonders how she managed that trick). _RED II._ There are also a few horror movies, clearly meant to be watched while cuddling close. _Evil Dead_ (the supposedly actually scary remake). There are a few dozen movies in total, mostly newer releases that Tony has missed due to his time as Ironman and a few classics. He is touched that she has handpicked the titles so obviously for him.

Tony chokes back the weighty, cumbersome sentiment and croaks, “Just pick one, Jarv.”

Jarvis selects _Pacific Rim_. Tony watches without truly seeing the movie. It is a mindless film anyway, but he sees why Pepper picked it the moment the first Jaeger appears on screen in the opening montage. They are lumbering, oversized, and absolutely ridiculous machines, things that Tony wishes he could be with Pepper right now, hurling popcorn at the screen and lamenting the absolutely crap physics.

When the movie ends and the humans are triumphant, Jarvis gently prompts, “Shall I play another, Sir?”

Tony shakes his head. “Not yet.”

He cannot exactly bear to see what more she has hand-picked for him, yet. He spends the rest of the afternoon trying not to think about that and sipping water to soothe his stomach. It is a pathetic game, but it passes the hours.

In the late day, Tony is pestered by a new, mortifying trouble. He has to go. Go, go – and in a way that the suit is not designed to efficiently deal with. He grits his teeth with shame and clenches as best he can against painful cramps. He tries not to, but his mind automatically calculates the time since he last relieved himself. The numbers add up to something Tony does not like.

He forces it down and barks at Jarvis, “Run _Evil Dead._ ”

“Of course, Sir.”

The movie plays, and it serves to distract Tony for a time. Then, midway through, his guts knot and threaten to revolt. He fights it, too horrified by the thought of what is about to happen to even admit to himself that it is understandable. He crams his eyes shut, but hot tears still manage to squeak out from beneath his dark lashes. When his body does finally fail him, the tears actually do fall, his cheeks burning under the helm.

“God damnit,” he growls, bitterly, furious at the situation and at his own traitorous body.

After a long, disquieting moment, Jarvis speaks, his voice calm and composed as ever. “Sir, do not concern yourself. Such happenings are to be expected considering the circumstances.”

Jarvis’s easy tone and solid logic should comfort him, but it hardly does. Jarvis does not have to lie in his own filth until someone comes to find them. Nor does Jarvis have to suffer the indignity of being rescued so soiled.

“Jarvis?”

The artificial intelligence is quick to respond, “Yes, Sir?”

“Shut up.”

The chastised program immediately replies, “Of course, Sir.”

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DAY 3

After the relatively minor discomforts and troubles of the previous days, the third day is agony, pure and simple.

The few mildly irksome pressure points upon which Tony has reclined are now ragingly sore. They throb with each beat of his heart. He tries, in vain, to move or shift off of them, but the suit refuses to budge. There remains only fractions of an inch for him to move, and, upon doing so, the simple adjustment places further weight upon other pressure points. It is a maddeningly awful predicament.

Additionally, as it to add further insult to injury, his muscles begin to protest against the motion. He cramps wildly from the lack of movement. Tony Stark is an active man – even on his days off. He boxes, jogs, trains with mixed martial arts, tinkers in the shop on his various projects, chases Pepper about the house with she snorts, honestly snorts. Prolonged, extreme confinement does not suit his body at all. It pulls and tugs instinctively at his sinews, fighting to move, to run, to fly, to do anything other than lie there in the same position for any longer.

His pants chafe at him when he moves. The suit has dried them to reclaim the water content, but the filth remains. The suit cannot remove that. It itches and rubs uncomfortably at his groin and buttocks.

His face also itches. Tony may be accustomed to his trademarked facial hair, but he has always kept the rest of his face clean shorn. A rather public life demands a perfect, precisely crafted public image that does not include stubble or scruff. Without his daily shave, the stubble is long enough now to itch and irritate. Tony rubs his cheeks along the inside of the helm, but it is of little comfort.

Tony’s hunger is not so easily quelled by water anymore. He gulps at the stuff, and, still, nothing seems to quiet his stomach. It growls and aches, knotting up inside of him. Yet, there is nothing Tony can do but ride it out, gritting his teeth against pathetic mewls that threaten when his stomach clenches up with the rest of his spring-wound body.

That painful day, Tony cannot focus on anything but the gross complaints his own physical form issues. He tries to sleep, but his body only allows for but a few minutes of fitful rest before complaining once more about one pain or another. Sometime in the afternoon, Tony cries out against the agony of it, and that swells to big, stupid, wasteful tears that the suit is quick to reclaim.

Once he has shed his tears, it is enough to exhaust him and drag him down to a deep, dark void.

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DAY 4

The morning begins with a series of noises outside the suit, stirring Tony from a restless slumber with a gasp. His chest immediately screams against such action, and the pitiful surge is followed by a series of pants to catch his breath. His lungs burn in protest, as Tony gulps air like a fish out of water.

Very few people know the pathetic truth to Tony Stark’s existence and the limitations of his life set by the arc reactor socket in his chest. Pepper, Rhodes, Happy, and his personal physician know intimately the physiological effects of the device, although Tony largely suspects that Bruce, Natasha, and Fury have figured it out long ago. The arc reactor occupies a fairly large territory, decreasing his lung capacity dramatically. Every day, every action, is a calculated to prevent himself from becoming too winded.

When Tony finally does catch his breath enough to think, he forces himself to listen, training his ears over his harsh, rapid inhalations to hear beyond the cramped confines of the suit. The tapping continues, followed by a hammering. It sounds like someone working beyond the suit.

Tony bellows out, the sound of his voice harsh to his own ears at such volume. “HEY! HEY! I’M IN HERE!”

No one answers, but the sounds do stop for but a moment before continuing on.

Spurned by near ludicrous hope, the inventor screams louder, “HEEEEEEEY!”

The noises go on.

Tony drops his head in dismay for a moment before calling again. “HELP ME, PLEASE!”

“Sir,” Jarvis intones carefully. “I would advise against-“

“Stuff it, Jarvis,” Tony barks bitterly. “I’M IN HERE! PLEASE! PLEASE, HELP ME!”

However, no one comes to his aid. Tony continues to yell, to shout, and bellow in the helm. He is so very hungry, and his entire body hurts from the lack of motion. Tony cries out again and again. Then, to his absolute horror, Tony begins to beg. Quivering in the comforting, dark confines of the suit, he offers whoever lies beyond the suit anything they desire. Money. Inventions. Weapons. Political power. His service. His offers become increasingly desperate until Tony realizes he is crying stupidly within the suit once more. Still, he tries. Shuddering, he even offers sex, but whatever or whoever lies beyond the dark of the suit continues on, ignoring him.

In a daze, Tony whispers, “Open the faceplate, Jarv.”

“I cannot do that, Sir.”

Tears burn down his cheeks; he has to see now. “That’s an order.”

“With which I cannot comply, Sir,” Jarvis argues smoothly. “Radiation levels remain too high for even short exposure. When you elected to include radiation shielding in this design, you programmed me against such a course of action.”

“God damnit, Jarvis, I know what I programmed you for!” Tony barks harshly.

“I know, Sir.” Jarvis is cold, cool, and composed in a way that suddenly irks his creator. “However, you included a failsafe preventing overriding such this measure.”

Tony blinks stupidly in the dim light of the HUD. Of course he would do something like that. In the wee hours of the night, only Tony Stark can out-think himself. It is the stuff of genius. He sobs heavily at the thought, while the banging continues outside.

In time, when Tony has calmed slightly, Jarvis offers hesitantly, “Shall I play another movie, Sir?”

Tony laughs uncomfortably at the thought and shakes his head. “Later.” He draws a deep breath, stilling himself. “Let’s get back to work.”

Tony spend the day distracting himself as much as possible with working to narrow down the very wide list of potential people might have reason to kidnap and hold him so. He adjusts the list to take into consideration the radiation beyond the suit. The factor does nothing to assist, and, so, Tony spends the better part of the day arguing with himself and Jarvis over why or why not a particular individual or organization could be the cause of this.

In time, the needs of his body rebel against him once more, and Tony finds himself pissing himself once more. It is utterly humiliating. He finds himself shivering and shaking his head in disbelief that enough time would pass without rescue that he should need to piss twice.

Jarvis seems to understand and offers once more, “Sir, shall I play a movie?”

This time, Tony agrees, biting his lip and nodding wordlessly to keep from crying like the child he is. Fortunately, Jarvis knows almost implicitly that Tony is not coherent enough to pick himself. A movie plays at random, another of Pepper’s, and Tony watches until he either falls asleep or passes out.

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DAY 5

The fifth day passes with Tony whimpering against the agony of his body and crying out to anyone who can hear. No one does. No one in five days. He shrieks and screams until his voice cracks, abandoning him like everyone else.

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DAY 6

In the morning, Tony notices something is wrong – truly wrong. The patches of skin beneath his shoulders, hips, and elbows feel raw in places but also numb elsewhere. It is a frightfully strange sensation, one he has never felt. He relays the information to Jarvis.

“Sir, I believe this may be an indication that you are beginning to develop pressure ulcerations.”

Tony furrows his brow. “Bed sores? I’m getting bed sores?”

“We did discuss this possibility,” Jarvis reminds him soberly. “However, without visual inspection, I cannot be certain.”

“Oh.”

There is nothing more to be said.

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DAY 7

“How long?”

“I beg your pardon, Sir?”

Tony swallows. His lips are dry and painfully cracked. His tongue feels abruptly too large, and his head feels swollen. The rapid onset of these additional discomforts has prompted Tony to ask.

“How long has it been?” Tony clarifies.

“Sir, it has been 7 days, 19 hours since last contact with Miss Potts.”

Tony blinks. The crusting about his eyes from previous tears scratches and pulls at the lashes, but it is nothing compared to the deep welling forming within him. Seven days. No one has found him.

“Sir?”

“They’re not going to find us, are they, Jarv?”

The a.i. does not immediately respond. Tony wonders idly if this is because Jarvis is actually processing large volumes of data to make a more accurate prediction, or if it is simply to stave off answering. Either possibility may be true.

“It is unlikely.”

Tony bites his lip so hard that it draws blood – a flash of copper and salt that he instinctively laps up.

“However, I must sincerely remind you that you have survived with more appalling odds against you.”

His bloodied lip quirks ever so slightly at the thought, for however frail the hope with it. “Thanks, Jarvis.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

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DAY 8

“Jarvis?”

“Yes, Sir?”

Tony swallows hard; this is difficult for him to ask. “I’d like to leave a message.” He closes his eyes. “While I’m still…. together.”

Jarvis does not comment. The program must surely be aware of the pangs in Tony’s stomach, the desperation clawing at his eyes. Jarvis’s programming has always included base psychological analysis to accommodate the most appropriate response to human questions and behavior. Tony had amplified this after Bruce took up residence in the Tower, and, as such, the program is much more intuitive to human needs and emotions than seemingly right.

“Of course, Sir.”

Tony nods to himself and tries to compose his scattered thoughts. “My name is Tony Stark – Ironman. If you are watching this, I’m probably…..” he stops, hardly able to stomach the word. “Dead. Please make sure this message gets to Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries. There’ll probably be a reward.”

Tony pauses here. He does not wish words meant for Pepper to follow such a blunt introduction. She deserves better. She always did.

When he is ready to continue, he addresses her directly. “Hey, Pepp. It’s me, Tony.” He feels himself smiling awkwardly as tears slip down his cheek. “I’m sorry I missed our date. Raincheck, yeah? Have your people call my people.” He chuckles uncomfortably at the pathetic joke before sobering once more. “Pepper, I’m sorry about all this. This isn’t the way I wanted this to go. I just don’t think anyone’s going to find me. I never…..” He swallows hard, a lump forming in his throat. “I tried to call you. In New York.” His hands struggle in the gauntlets, desperate to gesticulate wildly as is his nature. “I wanted to tell you before….” Tony closes his eyes, willing himself to keep his head and go on. “I wanted to tell you I love you.” Something tickles at his thought, forcing Tony to blurt out, “I don’t tell you enough. I do. Love you, that is.”

Abruptly, the words leave him, and Tony finds himself crying. He sobs for a short time, then coughs once. His chest tightens, and, to his surprise, he finds that the single cough has blurred into a few, smaller sounds akin to a cough.

Jarvis is there, as always. “That should be fine, Sir.”

Tony nods. “Thanks, Jarvis.”

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DAY 9

By the morning of the ninth day, a mild cough has settled into Tony’s chest. It worries him, but Tony says nothing to Jarvis.

Fortunately, the hollowness to his stomach has settled slightly. The hunger no longer claws at him as relentlessly. He comments about this to Jarvis, and the program responds that this is likely because his stomach is decreasing in size and volume due to a lack of nourishment.

Jarvis asks Tony something about how the joints feel, but Tony ignores him.

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DAY 10

On the tenth day, Jarvis announces in a chipper voice, “Sir, the external radiation levels have decreased enough that I might assess and render a base of the environment.”

Tony cannot find the words. He simply nods. He is tired. He has spent the better part of the day coughing and hacking, and the act has drained him utterly.

Jarvis complies, and the render unfolds before Tony’s eyes in the HUD. The scene is a curious but terrifying one. The suit lies in the middle of a room surrounded by machinery that Tony does not recognize, nor can he identify. The suit is held down by chains, weights, and what appears to be welding. Cables run this way and that over him, connected beneath the chest plate to the arc reactor terminal directly. He stares in horror as he realizes that whoever is keeping him cares only to use him as a battery.

A sudden and terrible realization dawns on him; there will be no torture, no ransom, nothing. They do not care that there is a human beneath the suit. Someday soon, Tony’s lifeless corpse will lie in the middle of whatever awful machine this is, powering it.

“Stop it,” Tony grinds out. “Just stop it, Jarv.”

“Of course.” The HUD goes blank, plunging Tony back into the comforting, familiar darkness. “Another movie, Sir?”

“Yeah…. fine.”

But it isn’t fine.

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DAY 11

Tony tries not to think of the fact that eleven days have slipped by in the darkness, accompanied only by Jarvis. He tries, but it is hard, very hard. It would be easier if the damned clock was not in his eyes constantly, but Tony cannot bring himself to ask Jarvis to remove the thing from the HUD. He stares at those numbers through the day, watching as they blur in his eye, as his chest tightens and the tickle in his throat worsens to a deep itch, even as Jarvis drones in his ears.

A day passes this way.

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DAY 12

Tony becomes acutely aware of the events – or lack thereof – of the prior day sometime in the morning with a jolt. It frightens him how a day could have slipped by without notice. He resolves on this day to ground himself better, to focus more intently on the now and remain coherent.

His body has other ideas. He is tired, so very tired. It is almost comical how tired a body can be from doing absolutely nothing. He wants to drift in and out, but Tony fights it desperately.

There is something else that keeps him up. The sore places where his weight rests feel… funny. They hurt, yes, but they also itch uncomfortable. They feel damp and wet, as though weeping. It is a strange and horrible sensation. He asks Jarvis, and the artificial intelligence reminds him that it is likely the inevitable rupturing of pressure ulcers.

Tony tries to work, to consider repairs and improvements to the flight system, however, his mind is too befuddled to accomplish anything, really. Every time he tries to focus, his thoughts wander. It is annoying at best and utterly disheartening if he is to be honest with himself.

The rawness to his throat and chest progresses to deeper, lingering coughs; Tony tries not to think about this.

Jarvis offers to play another movie and laments, “This is the last selection Miss Potts uploaded to the server.”

Tony chuckles at the thought, and that erupts into hysterical laughter. Tony tries to contain himself, he really does, but it is just too tragically funny for words. After everything, after all this, and Jarvis is worried about running out of movies. He laughs until his chest aches and the coughs overtake him once more along with the tears.

“Sir?”

Tony chews on his lip. “This is… the last new movie I’ll ever see.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.” Jarvis pauses before inquiring, “Shall I reserve it for later?”

Tony shakes his head. “Nah. Play it now.”

“Of course.”

As the film begins, Tony weeps silently at the pick. Pepper. She picked _Aliens_. Of course she would. Several of her movies involve giant or large robots like the powerloader at the end of this one. His Pepper is a fiery lass with a wicked sense of humor; of course she would pick this. His own tears blur the rest of the movie, but Tony makes sure to watch the end fight – for Pepper – before fading once more.

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DAY 13

The cough hurts now, but it helps to distract from his other troubles. Tony almost welcomes it, if it weren’t so hard to breathe. He often gags and chokes on the water as he drinks it. Jarvis cautions him, but Tony hardly hears him.

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DAY 14

Tony tries so very hard not to cry on the fourteenth day. He tries, but it is difficult. Two weeks. Two weeks have passed, marked only by his slow, excruciating decay. He sobs against the burning pain in his chest. The day is passed consumed by his own despair.

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DAY 15

The morning dawns with the terrifying realization that Tony is drifting more, sleeping more and losing more time. It is a sobering thought, but one Tony can do little about.

Tony whispers those dark, forbidden words for the first time. “Jarvis…. I think I’m dying, Jarvis.”

“I would have to regrettably agree, Sir,” Jarvis responds gently. “I’m sorry.”

Tony chuckles uncomfortably. It is almost comical that the only person who should witness his passing is not even a person. No. It is fitting, in an ironic way. Tony Stark has lived his life in the public eye; his death should be a private, intimate affair – perhaps the only one he has ever truly experienced in his unusual existence.

“I should leave a message….” he heaves.

“You already have, Sir,” Jarvis politely reminds him.

Idly, the inventor wonders if Jarvis has told him this before; then, on a whim, Tony breathes, “Hey, Jarv… how about that old archival stuff?”

“Of course.”

The artificial intelligence begins playing a series of video footage from various battles. However, it is all too fast, too jarring. It is dizzying trying to track not only former foes but his comrads as well – fellow Avengers and friends. Tony clamps his eyes shut before he can be ill.

Jarvis must know; he always does. “Sir, I have paused the replay for you.”

Tony sags in relief and nods.

“Perhaps, something different, Sir?”

Tony blinks and swallows, unable to form the words. Jarvis takes that as a positive response and begins to play a different video. This time, instead of jarring, confusing and dizzying fighting video, Jarvis plays something entirely different. This time, the video play-back is of clouds and mountains breezing by. Tony stares with wide, amazed eyes as the flight recording play of a routine crossing of the Rocky Mountains plays for him. He smiles wistfully, feeling almost like flying. The tears sting at his eyes, but they do not fall. Not this time.

“Thank you, Jarv.”

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DAY 16

Tony shivers and slumbers through the sixteenth day. His dreams are jumbled and disorienting, fevered things that frighten the inventor. Yet, he cannot seem to quell the nightmares. He sees his friends, his family, his fellow Avengers slaughtered. He spies himself as a lifeless, husk of a man powering a doomsday machine of some kind.

Jarvis keeps his volume low and his tone even. “Shh. Sleep, Sir. It will not be long now.”

His words do penetrate, and, oddly, Tony takes comfort in them.

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DAY 17

A sudden blast of cool air upon his fevered face stirs Tony from his sleep. He tries to open his eyes, but it is too bright, too glaring. The light sears at his eyes.

“Jarv….” he croaks, his mouth dry and lips cracking against the motion.

“Sir, the radiation levels have abruptly dropped below levels safe for human exposure.”

Tony nods slightly; it is all he is capable of now.

He sleeps and dreams. He dreams of strange things. He dreams of gleaming, golden hawk faces nestled in ebony feathers. The flood his thoughts with a jabbering language punctuated by bird whistles. Then, he dreams of black wings and reptilian eyes. He gasps, but that falls to another coughing fit.

When Tony dreams again, it is of the sunshine and flying.

Yet, even as he slips away, Tony cannot help but feel a nagging sense of worry. As he slips away once more, he thinks of the arc reactor imbedded in his chest and the terrible power residing there. He has never once given consideration to disposing of the thing should he perish – as he seems to be now. He wonders idly what will happen to the thing.

Somehow, even that worry slips away with the world.

Jarvis was right; it is over. It is done.

 

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**Author's Note:**

> I promise.... there is more. This is not the end of the great Tony Stark.


End file.
